


Sincerely Ugly Sweater

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Coming Out, Multi, Podfic Welcome, Rambling Conversation, awkward conversation, ugly sweater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 15:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16098896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: A fan knit Shane a sweater. Ryan may never forgive them for it.





	Sincerely Ugly Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the ever lovely punk-rock-yuppie!

“Shane, what the fuck is on your body?”

“A whole lot of things,” said Shane, leaning back in his seat, his arms over his head and his back arching.

“What are you _wearing_ , I meant,” said Ryan, looking Shane up and down with an expression of shock and horror. 

“Oh, this?”

Shane looked down at his own chest, with mock surprise. 

“Yes,” Ryan said, indicating Shane’s… well, everything. 

"A fan sent it in," said Shane, and he was rubbing his hands together, shifting from foot to foot.

The sweater seemed to be _knitted_ , and there were actual hot dogs frolicking across it. 

One of them was wearing a cowboy hat.

At least they didn't have faces.

"Why are you wearing it?!"

"Someone went to all the trouble of knitting me a sweater," said Shane. "Of course I'm going to wear it! Especially when we're out here in the middle of Canada in November. I'm going to catch a chill."

" _I'm going to catch a chill,_ " Ryan imitated. "Aren't you the dude who is always bragging about how well you can stand up to the cold?"

"Ryan," Shane said, in that condescending tone that made Ryan want to punch him (and maybe some other stuff, but Ryan wasn't going to think about that right now), "part of being good at dealing with the cold is knowing when to put on a goddamn sweater."

"Yeah, yeah," said Ryan, making a face. "It's not that cold."

"It's November in Canada, next to a lake," Shane countered. "You should bring a sweater."

"I'll be good," Ryan said. "I'm wearing long sleeves."

"If you say so," said Shane. 

"Do you have to wear _that_ sweater?"

"What's wrong with my sweater?"

Shane struck a pose.

Ryan groaned. 

There were ears of corn going across the arms, and the yarn was practically metallic, it was that bright.

The sweater itself was a deep, dark green which did, admittedly, suit Shane. It brought out the red undertones of Shane's brown hair, and it made his eyes shine, just a bit.

Or maybe Ryan was thinking too hard about this.

Oh god.

He was _not_ going to rhapsodize about Shane's eyes when they were on location.

... not that he'd rhapsodize about Shane's eyes in general, but still.

Time and a place.

The time was never and the place was also never, because never could be a place if you put enough thought into it.

Shane was looking at Ryan, his expression critical.

"What?"

"You're really going to go out in a Lakers jersey over a long sleeve black shirt?"

"I'm wearing pants," Ryan pointed out.

"Well yes, Ryan, you're wearing pants. It's not like you make a habit of going out in public with no pants on," said Shane, faintly exasperated. 

"Pants versus shorts, genius," Ryan said as they made their way out of their motel.

Shane grabbed a flannel shirt, and he was tying it around his waist. 

"What?"

"I might get cold," Shane said. "Or maybe you'll get cold."

"I'll be fine," Ryan insisted. "Anyway, your shirt wouldn't fit me. I'm a lot broader than you are."

The bickering was as familiar as breathing, as the two of them made their way down the parking lot, towards the car, where TJ was waiting. 

Shane snorted, his expression amused.

"You know," he said, "wool stretches. Worst case scenario, you can borrow my sweater, I'll wear my flannel."

"As if I'd be caught dead in that monstrosity," Ryan said, flapping his hand in Shane's direction. 

"This is an excellent sweater, no doubt knitted with the finest wool and also love," said Shane, putting on an insulted tone.

"Maybe be careful with the "love" business. Our fans have been pretty mellow, but you don't want to tempt fate," said Ryan, and he was mostly kidding. "Anyway, are you sure it's wool?" 

"It might not be, like, sheep's wool," said Shane, “but it feels like wool."

Shane ran his fingers across the sleeve of the sweater, then rubbed one sleeve between his thumb and forefinger.

The sleeves were rolled over a few times - the fan who had knitted it had clearly assumed that Shane had the proportions of an average orangutan. 

It wasn't that far off, admittedly, but still.

As Shane made his way towards the car, Ryan stared at his back - there were fucking _French fries_ on the back, picked out lovingly in yellow. 

Whoever had knitted this thing must have been some kind of prodigy, with all the detail work that had gone into it.

"To think that whoever knitted you this abomination wasted all of their talent on... well, this," said Ryan, and he tugged on the sleeve that Shane had been rubbing himself. 

It was soft, and caught on the calluses from playing the guitar. 

Ryan let go of the sweater, although his fingers were practically tingling.

It did look warm, he had to admit.

The wind off of the lake was blowing in their direction, but it wasn't too bad. 

Ryan might have been a bit of a "lily of the valley" (as Shane so obnoxiously put it) when it came to cold weather, but it wasn't like they were going hiking or anything.

They were literally just going to dinner.

It would be fine.

Absolutely fine. 

* * *

They ended up eating at a pub.

It was a proper Canadian pub - at least, as far as Ryan knew from Canadian pubs, which was, admittedly, not much.

But there was poutine - Ryan was very much in favor of poutine. 

“This is practically midwestern,” said Shane, as he scooped up a cheese curd with a french fry. “I approve.”

“It’s not casserole-y enough for you,” said Ryan. 

“Yes, but it’s got potatoes, cheese, and gravy,” said Shane. 

"That is, like, the whitest thing you've ever said to me," said Ryan. 

"The ranch aficionado is lecturing me on white people cuisine," said Shane. 

"Except I'm not a white people," said Ryan.

"Well, obviously." said Shane. "There's only one of you."

Ryan snorted. 

"And I'm not white."

"That too," said Shane.

He was sitting directly under one of the overhead lights, and it was shining down on him, casting his face in a golden glow, his craggy features casting interesting shadows across the planes of his face.

Ryan wanted to take a picture, to memorize the stark contrast of the light like honey, and the deep shadows.

"You okay there, Ry?"

"Mmm?"

"You're staring at me with a dopey expression," said Shane.

"Oh. Um."

Ryan cleared his throat.

"Um?"

Shane raised an eyebrow, his expression as sardonic as ever.

"Well," Ryan said, "don't you think that every expression I make is dopey?"

"I mean," said Shane, "some of 'em are just funny."

Ryan flipped the bird at Shane.

TJ snorted, and Ryan was very nearly startled.

He'd forgotten that TJ was there in the first place.

"They make other kinds of poutine," Shane said. "Than the regular type, I mean."

"Do they?"

"Yeah," said Shane. "I saw a butter chicken one advertised."

"Does it even count as poutine at that point?"

"It's got fries and cheese curds, so I'd say so."

"Cheese curds can't be the only thing that make poutine," Ryan said. 

"Are you suddenly a poutine expert?"

"I could be, if I wanted," said Ryan.

"I know," said Shane, and it was such a burst of... honesty that Ryan was frankly caught off guard.

"Oh," said Ryan. "Um. Thank you?"

"Of course," said Shane, and he grinned, snagging another fry on his fork.

The long piece of melted cheese stretched and stretched, and Ryan was struck with the inexplicable urge to lean forward and pull a Lady and the Tramp maneuver. 

... oh _god_.

Ryan blushed, and he shoved another fry into his mouth, trying to concentrate on chewing. 

He'd been having a lot of distracting thoughts lately.

He needed to sit down and actually _think_ about this shit, in a way that made sense.

... who was he kidding.

He'd been thinking about it a lot.

Usually in the quiet hours of the night, when he couldn't sleep. 

But this wasn't a thing to focus on when he was on location.

If he kept telling himself that, he might even believe it.

On Shane's sweater, the fucking hot dog managed to keep looking at him, even though it didn't actually have a face. 

"Hey Ryan," said Shane, "next time, we should get hot dog poutine."

Ryan snorted, and took another bite.

* * * 

TJ begged off early, claiming exhaustion and "having to deal with you two."

Which left Ryan and Shane to their own devices.

It was... awkward.

Why was it so awkward?

This was Ryan and Shane!

They were best friends! This was what they did - they could banter and laugh and be good regardless of... well, whatever.

But there was some kind of heaviness between them.

Also, Ryan hated to admit it, but it was getting cold.

Not that he'd tell Shane, because then Shane would _gloat_ , and god forbid Shane get a good gloat in. 

They ended up going to a bar. 

It was a quiet bar - not a lot of people around this time of year, it seemed. 

They sat at a vinyl booth, nursing bottles of beer, and Ryan tried to make conversation.

Shane, at least, didn't seem to feel the awkward.

He just... wasn't talking.

Ryan cleared his throat, glancing sidelong at Shane.

Shane looked back at him.

His expression was calm.

"Hey, Shane?"

"Mmm?"

"Why are you so worried about me getting cold?"

... that hadn't been what Ryan had meant to ask.

He wasn't sure what it was that he had meant to ask, but it hadn't been that.

"Oh," said Shane. "I mean, I wouldn't want anyone to get cold, obviously." 

"Right," said Ryan, and his stomach was dropping into his feet. 

"But especially you," said Shane. 

"Oh?"

And his stomach was going up again.

God, this was worse than riding a rollercoaster.

The poutine churned uncomfortably.

"Well, yeah," said Shane. "You're a big whiny baby when you're cold."

Ryan snorted.

"And, uh," Shane said, and he cleared his throat, "you're... y'know, I don't like it when you're unhappy."

Shane seemed to be feeling the awkward, at last.

“Thank you,” said Ryan, because… well, what else was he going to say?

“I’ll get us drinks,” said Shane, and he stood up, making his way towards the bar.

Ryan watched Shane’s retreating back, his expression thoughtful. 

Was he reading too into things?

What was there even to read into, in this case?

He watched Shane at the bar.

From this distance, the stupid sweater didn't seem quite so... egregious.

The various items of food just looked like bits of design.

The light from the bar was dim, with random spots of brighter light.

Shane would be in shadow, shift, and then there would be a spot of brightness, and it would catch the highlights in Shane's hair again, or send a line of brightness along Shane's nose, or make the shadows under Shane's cheekbones that much more stark.

Ryan realized he was staring, and he jerked his eyes away, like he had been looking at something he shouldn't have been.

Had he?

He wasn't sure.

He gave a long, belabored sigh, and he leaned back into his seat. 

Okay.

He was tired - tired of his thoughts chasing themselves in circles, tired of second guessing himself. Tired of this wanting, that was almost like an itch, right under his skin.

It wasn't exactly... well, new, that he had a crush on Shane, although even thinking of it in those terms made him cringe.

... why was it making him cringe?

It wasn't like he'd never had a crush on a guy, exactly.

He usually didn't do anything with it, for a whole host of reasons, but it was... it wasn't _not_ a thing.

It wasn't like he had a problem with being with a guy... in theory?

What did “being” even mean in this case?

... he was literally in a small bar in an equally small town in Ontario, why the fuck was he ruminating on this shit _now_ of all times?

"You look like someone just kicked your puppy," Shane said, as he made his way back, holding a beer in each hand.

"There has been no puppy kicking," Ryan assured Shane. "All puppies are good."

Shane snorted, and he set the beer down in front of Ryan. 

"That's good to know," he told Ryan.

"Hey, so, question," said Ryan. "If someone else knit you a sweater that was equally ugly, would you wear it?"

"This sweater isn't ugly," Shane said, running a hand across the front of his chest, his expression smug.

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"It's not," Shane said. "It's made with love."

"Plenty of things made with love are ugly," Ryan countered.

"Like what?"

"Babies," said Ryan.

That startled a laugh out of Shane. "What?!" 

He looked faintly scandalized, which wasn't a look that Ryan was used to on Shane.

"You yourself have said, on camera, that most babies are either normal looking or ugly," said Ryan, and he was picking up speed. "And okay, so not all babies are _made_ with love, but a good chunk of them are, and even the ones that aren't made with love are still loved, which technically falls under this argument."

"It does not," Shane said, and he took a slug of his beer.

"You were a ridiculously ugly baby but your parents loved you very much," said Ryan.

"Well, yes," said Shane. "But as I've said before, my parents were saints."

Ryan made an amused noise, and he took a swig of his beer.

Something was leaving him... twitchy.

On edge.

It was a bit like that moment when playing a game, right when the whistle is about to blow and your whole body is just on the very edge of bolting forward.

Something was going to happen, although what or how he didn't know.

So he took another slug of his beer.

"So you're saying that all _not_ ugly babies aren't made with love?"

That startled a laugh out of Ryan.

"I wasn't saying that," he protested, and he was still cackling, covering his mouth with one hand.

"It seems to be what you were implying," Shane said. "Ergo, every baby who _isn't_ ugly is not, in fact, loved!"

"No," Ryan said. "No way."

"What's your proof, hm?"

"I'm going to have beautiful babies that I'm going to love very much," Ryan said, in a self assured tone of voice. "And Buzzfeed Unsolved isn't ugly either," he added, as his stomach did some sort of weird flip, because talking about babies with Shane felt... fraught, in a way that he couldn't talk about.

"I dunno what you're talking about," said Shane. "Our ugly mugs are all over the screen."

"You're not ugly," said Ryan, before his brain had a chance to intercept his mouth. 

Shane gave him an unreadable look.

"I mean," Ryan said quickly, "not compared to some things. Compared to a blobfish, you've got the best mug in town!" 

Why had he said that?

Was he trying to flirt, or trying to… retroactively _not_ flirt?

He probably should have thought this through before he had actually started.

"Compared to a blobfish," Shane said, his voice flat. 

"Oh yeah," said Ryan. "Look at you, all of your features staying in one place, barely even wobbling. I bet you've got actual bones in your face!"

"Ryan, please stop complimenting me. I feel like you're going to try to harvest my organs and then, like, plant them in the ground to try to grow organ trees."

"... _what_?"

Shane grinned at Ryan, that obnoxious grin he always got when he had managed to discombobulate Ryan particularly well.

Ryan rolled his eyes.

"You're such a pain, you know that?"

"Au contraire," Shane said, "I am bringing some interesting chaos to your dull, humdrum life."

"You're saying I have a dull, humdrum life? Where I get to research true crime and go to haunted locations?"

"If you weren't going to haunted locations, you would probably be scaring the shit out of yourself from noises under your bed," Shane said, flapping a hand in a dismissive gesture. "You contain many great multitudes, but you're a wuss at the very base of your soul."

"Why are you so convinced that I'm a wuss?"

"Because you scream at shadows," said Shane.

"I do _not_ scream at shadows," Ryan said, indignant.

"I have seen you scream from a pigeon flying at you," Shane said. 

"I guess you're not surprised by pigeons flying at _your_ head, considering how big and high up it is," said Ryan.

Shane rolled his eyes.

"I'm just saying," said Ryan. 

"There's nothing wrong with being a wuss," said Shane. "Plenty of things in society have happened because people were wusses."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm totally not," said Shane, and now he was leaning back into his booth, his arms behind his head.

He looked faintly wobbly - the sweater was bunching around his upper arms.

There was a lot of arm. 

A whole lot of arm. 

There was a lot of Shane in general, which wasn't something that Ryan thought about too much, except when he did.

Like now.

Oh god.

He was staring at Shane's long torso, stretched out under that baggy, ugly sweater. 

... that warm, fluffy, ugly sweater, holding on tightly to Shane's torso - what would it be like, to cuddle up to Ryan like that, his head under Shane's chin?

Oh god.

Ryan was feeling something like jealousy for a sweater.

Or maybe he wanted the sweater for himself.

... no.

No, even at his most in denial, pining from the depths of his soul, he would never want _that_ sweater.

"Ryan," said Shane, and he snapped his fingers.

Ryan jerked out of his daze.

"What?"

"You're spacing out," said Shane. "What's up?"

"Tell me one thing that was invented by a wuss," Ryan said to Shane, more to change the subject than to actually get an answer.

"Fire," said Shane. 

"Fire wasn't _invented_ ," said Ryan. 

"Okay, so maybe a wuss captured fire, didn't invent it," said Shane, "but still."

"How would a wuss be the one to capture fire? Fire is scary."

"But it brings you light," said Shane. "That wards off the dark, doesn't it?"

"I mean," said Ryan, "that's true, but at the same time... fire. If I'm some kind of wuss, I don't want to worry about being burned."

The bar was beginning to fill up - it looked like a bachelor party, or some other kind of rowdy group, and Shane was frowning.

It was getting louder.

"You wanna go outside?"

"Outside?"

"Yeah," said Shane. "They've got a patio." He grinned. "No self respecting bar in Ontario will ever be without a patio, according to the guy who runs the bar."

"Huh," said Ryan. "So patios are a big deal?"

"Apparently so," said Shane, and he picked up both of their drinks, making his way through the crowd, like an ambulatory tree.

Ryan bit his lip to keep from snickering at the image, following after Shane.

"You know," Ryan said, when the two of them were sitting at a picnic table and eating drinking, "you'd make a good Ent."

"You mean like Treebeard?"

"Yeah," said Ryan. "Exactly."

"I am nowhere near that ponderous," said Shane, making a face.

"I mean," said Ryan, "you can be, when you want to be."

"Anyone can be ponderous when they want to be, if they tried hard enough," Shane countered.

"I disagree," said Ryan. 

"Oh yeah. Name one person who can't?"

"Curly," said Ryan.

"... almost anyone," Shane amended.

There was always something satisfying about stopping Shane in his tracks. 

"I'm not a wuss," Ryan said again, to make a point.

Some wind blew in, presumably off of the lake, and it went right up the back of Ryan's shirt, leaving him shivering, licking along the back of his neck.

He was beginning to sweat, just a bit, and it was making him clammy.

Why was he so clammy all of a sudden?

"You're a wuss when it comes to haunted locations," said Shane. "You're plenty brave in other ways."

"Well... you're a wuss when it comes to heroin needles," Ryan countered.

Shane snorted, and then he began to laugh.

To actually laugh, and Ryan had to reach out and grab at Shane's drink, before it got knocked over from Shane pounding on the table.

The whole patio was empty, at the very least.

"What's so damn funny?"

Ryan had to crack a grin in spite of himself, because... well.

How could he not join in on that kind of laughter?

"I'm a wuss when it comes to heroin needles," Shane wheezed, and he was clearly trying to stop, but not succeeding - he was turning bright red under the yellow halogen of the lights around the patio.

"Well, yeah," said Ryan. "You said as much."

"I'm not a wuss to be afraid of heroin needles," said Shane. "Everyone is afraid of heroin needles!"

"I'm not afraid of heroin needles," Ryan countered. 

"What, so if I brought a heroin needle out, you'd be fine?"

"... well, no, but... y'know, at least it's not an actual phobia," said Ryan.

"I still think that my phobia is more realistic than yours," said Shane.

"Who would want to waste their heroin on some rando?" Ryan countered. "It's like those alarmist Facebook posts that are all about how they're giving out ecstasy on Halloween or something."

"There are some sick people out there," Shane said. "You of all people would know that, with all the true crime stuff you're forever researching."

There was more wind, and Ryan shivered, hard enough that his teeth chattered.

Shane looked at him, his expression hard to read.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," said Ryan. "We're just having an intense conversation, that's all."

"Are you cold?"

Shane seemed to have lost track of the conversation - he was just looking at Ryan, his expression worried. 

"I'm fine," Ryan said again. 

"You're clearly not," said Shane. "You're shivering."

"I thought you didn't notice when I'm shivering, usually," said Ryan. 

"I do notice," said Shane, "I just think it's funny, since usually you're just scared shitless."

"I'm not usually scared shitless," Ryan said, defensive. 

Shane gave him a Look.

"I'm not scared _shitless_ ," Ryan said, and he was blushing. "I am in full control of my own shit, thank you very much."

"Wow, that's a sentence," said Shane. 

"Um," said Ryan. 

“Um,” Shane echoed back.

"Aren't you the one who's always calling me the "lily of the valley" and shit?"

"I mean, yeah," said Shane. "That would imply that I've noticed, in the past, when you got cold."

"So why are we arguing?"

"I don't know," said Shane, and he looked faintly amused. "I think it's habit."

But he was still frowning. 

"Are you sure you're not cold?"

"I'm fine," Ryan said, and he was lying through his lips, which were no doubt starting to turn purple. 

He always forgot how cold it could get - both in terms of next to the water, and just... in general.

He was tired.

He was tired, and he was cold.

Fuck if he was going to let Shane find out.

Shane rubbed his own hands together, leaning back. 

"It's very pretty here," said Shane. "We should have done a lake monster much sooner."

"You think?"

"Oh yeah," said Shane. "Lakes are nice."

"Isn't Chicago on a lake?"

"Exactly," said Shane. 

"Do you ever, like... miss Chicago?"

Ryan took a slug of his beer, lacking anything else to do.

Shane shrugged.

"I don't know," he said. 

"You don't... know?"

"I mean," said Shane, "I do miss my family, but I figure, part of growing up is moving away from home, right?"

"Right," said Ryan. 

Shane leaned back into his seat, his hands behind his head, jiggling his leg.

... huh.

If Ryan hadn't known better, he would have thought that the big guy was _antsy_ , which was weird to think about.

"I like my life as it is where I am," Shane said, and it looked a bit like he was blushing. 

What was getting Shane so flustered?

Were they all just turning into some kind of giant weirdos who would flush at the drop of a hat?

"Right," said Ryan.

There was another gust of wind, and it was a little like someone with very cold hands had just slid them through Ryan’s hair, across the back of his neck, over his scalp.

He shuddered again - he hadn't realized that wind could go right through you like that.

He was beginning to shiver, which was probably not a good thing.

Um.

Crud.

He licked his lips, and he shot Shane a worried look.

Shane raised an eyebrow.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," said Ryan.

"You look cold," said Shane.

"I'll be fine," Ryan said. 

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Would I say I was okay if I wasn't?"

"Yes, Ryan," said Shane, in a faintly long suffering tone of voice. "Yes, you would. That's the kind of person you are. You will suffer like a martyr if you think it's for a good cause, and you have yet to find a cause that isn't good enough."

"Don't _you_ complain all the time about the way I complain whenever we go to a haunted house?"

"Yeah, because it's dumb to react to haunted houses in the first place," said Shane. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

"You said yourself that a bunch of those places are eerie!"

"Yeah, they're eerie," said Shane, "but eerie doesn't mean haunted."

"Still," said Ryan.

"Still what?"

"I dunno," said Ryan, and he leaned back, rubbing his hands together. "I think I'm just tired."

"Is the relentless niceness of the Canadians starting to get to you?"

"People from California are nice," said Ryan. 

"Yeah, but they're weird," said Shane. 

"Weird doesn't necessarily mean bad," Ryan pointed out.

"Yeah," said Shane, "that's true. I think I'm just getting used to not being around people who are going on a vegan fast or spend their weekends hiking."

"People hike around here," said Ryan, indicating the vast sweep of the landscape. "How could they _not_?"

"I thought you didn't like hiking," said Shane.

"I might not be super into hiking, but I can at least appreciate when someplace looks like its good for hiking," said Ryan.

"You look like you're going to shiver right out of your skin," said Shane. "Are you sure you don't want to borrow my sweater?"

"Get me another beer and I'll think about it," said Ryan.

"Wow," said Shane, and he looked faintly amused. "Aren't you in a bossy mood?"

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"Are you complaining?"

"Well, yes, but only for the look of the thing," said Shane, and he grinned at Ryan, an expression that could best be described as "wolfish."

Ryan hadn't realized that real people had faces that could do shit like that. 

Inasmuch as Shane qualified as a "real people."

"You like when I'm bossy?"

"It can be enjoyable," said Shane, in that cryptic voice of his that always made Ryan crazy.

It wasn't even _that_ cryptic!

It was just cryptic enough that Ryan was sure that he was missing out on some kind of innuendo, but he didn't know what.

He had to bite back the urge to groan and cover his face.

Oh god.

He was, to his horror, blushing.

Actually blushing, from his cheeks to his forehead, all the way to the back of his neck. 

Why was he even blushing?

And why was he shivering so hard?

... was he even shivering that hard?

But Shane was standing up, right then and there, unfolding like a lawn chair, and he was making his way towards the bar inside.

"Be right back," he called over his shoulder.

Ryan gave a thumbs up, which Shane probably couldn't see.

Oh well.

There would be more beer coming - that would be good, right?

* * *

Ryan was three beers in, and he wasn't cold anymore.

If anything, he was almost too warm. 

That was a weird thing to be, as cold as it was.

... he was also more than three sheets to the wind, if his thoughts were being this... _exact_.

He probably needed to do something about that. 

He took another slug of his beer, and he looked across the patio table at Shane, whose elbows were on the glass tabletop, chin in one huge hand.

"What's going through that over sized noggin of yours?" 

Ryan's voice was almost completely normal, which was good. 

He wouldn't want to slur, when he was this tired. His mind seemed to be going sluggish and confused, but he wanted to make his meanings as clear as possibly.

"A bunch of stuff," said Shane, then; "that one disorder that sailors used to get."

"... scurvy?"

"What?"

"Scurvy," Ryan said again.

"It's not scurvy, Ryan," Shane said in a long suffering tone of voice. 

"That's the famous sailor disease, isn't it?"

"I mean, yeah, it is, but that's not what I'm talking about."

"So what are you talking about?"

"It's... I don't remember," said Shane, and he looked faintly sheepish, in the yellowy light of the lanterns.

He looked like some saint, painted out in gold paint, the shadows cast from his eyelashes, his nose, his eyebrows.

His eyebrows were knotting up, and there was a line between them.

Ryan wanted to reach out and run his thumb across it. 

... that was probably a bad idea.

Oh god.

Ryan's arms were covered in goosebumps, brushing against the thin fabric of his shirt. 

"My brain is saying "calamine," but I know that can't be right," said Shane.

"No?"

"Calamine is that stuff that you put on sunburns or bug bites," said Shane.

"Right," said Ryan. 

"Which isn't what I'm thinking of," Shane added.

"So what _are_ you thinking of?"

"It's this... thing that happens sometimes, where you get sailors who are on a becalmed sea -"

"I cannot believe you just said "becalmed" with a straight face," Ryan interrupted.

"I have to do some things in my life in a straight way, or else things would get weird," said Shane, and then his expression looked downright _anxious._.

... huh.

"Yeah?"

"Well," Shane said, "if I went through life doing everything in a... you know, in a not-straight way, then it would get repetitive."

"Like a gay way?"

"Nah," said Shane. "Maybe a bisexual way? Pansexual way? I don't fucking know. _Regardless_."

"Regardless," Ryan echoed.

"Regardless," Shane said, "what is even the _point_ of talking about weird things that happened to sailors in the way back when, if not for the chance to use words like "becalmed" in the first place?"

"... I'd say to convey information, but I feel like you'd tell me off for not being in the spirit of things," said Ryan.

"And you'd be correct," said Shane. 

There was a tension in the air - a tightness, as Ryan's shoulders tried to settle up around his ears.

Had he known that Shane liked dudes, and had forgotten?

Had it just not come up?

How did that sort of thing not come up?

Then again, how did that sort of thing come up, when it came down to it?

... maybe Ryan was thinking too hard about this.

"Ryan," Shane said, and maybe his voice was a bit sharper, or maybe Ryan was imagining things.

Ryan shivered, and it was mostly because he was cold. 

"Shit, sorry," said Ryan, and he shot Shane a look that was hopefully contrite but also not too dopey looking.

"Did I throw you for a loop?"

Shane was rubbing his hands together now, which was odd - he usually wasn't much of a fidgeter.

"I'm fine," Ryan said. "Why, did you think that would, like, upset me or something?"

Shane shrugged. 

"You come off as pretty bro-y," he said, and he... probably had a point.

"Bro doesn't have to mean homophobic," Ryan said. 

"Well, no, it doesn't have to," said Shane, "but it often does."

"I think you just hang out with the wrong sorts of bros," said Ryan.

Shane held his hands out, his expression probably what he thought of as "contrite."

"I suppose you're right," he said. "A thousand pardons to you, and to bro-kind by extension."

"I'm sure bro-kind will find it in their hearts to forgive you," said Ryan.

Shane had pulled the long arms of the sweater up over his own hands, and he was wriggling his fingers - they moved under the knitted fabric like a basket of puppies under a blanket.

Shane's hands were probably warm, with all of that wool - Ryan wanted to reach out, grab them, squeeze them.

"I didn't... that was an inappropriate thing to say," Shane said, and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

"I think you're more sorry that you've missed all of those opportunities to make those kinds of jokes," said Ryan, trying to grab the silly thread of the conversation.

... sort of.

"You think?"

Shane raised an eyebrow.

"It would explain the tension I see whenever I say certain things, like telling you to stick on the straight and narrow."

"Since when have you told me to stick to the straight and narrow?"

"Well, now I know you can only commit to one of those things," said Ryan, and he was... he was laughing.

He couldn't entirely help it - it was all just so _ridiculous_.

He was sitting here, the night before he was going to go hunt a lake monster, freezing his nuts off, across from his coworker, who was in a sweater knitted with hot dogs.

A sweater knitted with hot dogs based on the weird background joke that turned into... who the fuck even know, after their wildly successful YouTube show took off....

"Hey, Shane?"

Ryan was finally catching his breath, at least, panting down at the table, misting it up a bit with his breath.

"Yeah?"

Shane still looked nervous.

"What do you think, like, young you would think of your current life situation?"

Shane blinked, his expression thoughtful.

"What do you mean?"

"Like... living in LA, doing all this shit that we do now."

"What do I think past me would think of it?"

"Or at least, young you," said Ryan.

He looked up towards the sky, and the moon seemed to be dancing, passing behind clouds, then coming back.

It was a paler, more silvery light compared to the lanterns.

"I think that young me would honestly be very confused," said Shane. "Because first I'd have to tell young me about what the internet was, then what YouTube was, then what Buzzfeed was...."

"Buzzfeed isn't that hard a concept to grasp," Ryan said.

"Yeah, but YouTube can be," said Shane. 

Ryan shrugged.

"But the other stuff... I think young me would be pretty happy," said Shane, and there was something downright _soft_ about his face, which made Ryan's heart beat very fast in his chest.

... fuck.

Oh god, this was a real crush, wasn't it?

An honest to god crush, like something he'd had when he was in sixth grade.

_Fuck_ , he did not need this in his life right now. 

He rubbed his arms, then shoved his hands into his armpits, shivering. 

"Oh," said Shane. "I remember the point of my original tangent!"

"What original tangent?"

"About that disease that sailors get."

"What, scurvy?"

"No," Shane said, his expression long suffering. "Not _scurvy_. Which I already said it wasn’t.”

"Right," said Ryan. “Sorry. We can’t all be experts in sailor… stuff.”

“If I was an expert in sailor stuff, I wouldn’t be feeling quite so lost,” said Shane, and he was pressing his face into his palms, his eyes half shut.

“Right,” said Ryan, aware that he was repeating himself, not really sure what else to say.

“Regardless,” said Shane. “My original point!”

“Your original point,” said Ryan, in an agreeable tone.

… or at least, what he hoped was an agreeable tone.

“So when sailors are becalmed at sea - don’t start again - they sometimes become convinced that they’re actually in the middle of a big field.”

“Yeah?”

Shane was fiddling with his beer bottle - he’d pushed his sleeves up at some point.

He had such big, bony hands - they weren’t exactly elegant, but Ryan still wanted to trace the lines of it with his fingers.

… was he drunk?

Maybe he was drunk.

A little bit drunk.

“I think you get like that,” said Shane, suddenly. “But, like, in the other direction.”

“Hm?”

“You convince yourself that you’re somewhere scary when you aren’t actually somewhere scary,” said Shane. 

“I do not,” Ryan said. “You’ve agreed with me, that some of the places we go to are fuckin’ terrifying.”

“I mean, yeah, _some_ of ‘em,” said Shane. 

“Are you afraid I’m gonna… what, run off a cliff tomorrow or something?”

“I don’t think there are any cliffs by the lake,” Shane said, his voice deadpan.

Ryan snorted.

“We’re not gonna be so _becalmed_ that I’m going to think that I’m in the middle of a field,” said Ryan, wrinkling his nose.

“You think?”

“I know,” he told Shane. 

Impulsively, he reached out, putting a hand on top of Shane’s.

Shane looked down at it, one eyebrow up, and then he frowned.

“Your hand is freezing,” he told Ryan, and he turned his own hand around, squeezing Ryan’s fingers.

Ryan blushed hard enough that he heard his heartbeat in his ears, and he licked his lips.

“Sorry,” he said, not sure what he was apologizing for.

“I told you, you should have worn an actual sweater,” said Shane. 

“Let me wear your sweater, then,” said Ryan.

Shane raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you hated this sweater,” said Shane.

He was still holding Ryan’s hand. 

“I have to admire an unironic ugly sweater,” Ryan said, trying to keep his face completely neutral. “Something that sincerely ugly needs to be appreciated.”

“Are you calling my sweater ugly?”

Shane’s thumb traced across Ryan’s knuckles, and Ryan blushed harder.

Something was… something was happening, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“You look better in flannel,” he told Shane.

“Well,” said Shane, “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

And then he was leaning back, pulling the sweater over his head, and he was handing it over.

The sweater was still warm from Shane’s body, and Ryan pulled it over his own head, the warmth of it sinking into his skin.

… okay, yeah, no, that was _exactly_ what he needed.

He made eye contact with Shane, and he blushed.

Things were going weird places, clearly.

But at least he had a fuzzy sweater to keep him warm.

Even if it was that goddamn ugly.

**Author's Note:**

> Like this fic?
> 
> Want me to write you something like it, or something completely different?
> 
> Come talk to me on my tumblr, theseusinthemaze.tumblr.com!


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